Thesis for Graduate School 2011
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ABSTRACT THE LITTLE DEATH ARTIST by Aaron M. Fortkamp This work of fiction depicts two families in sub/rural America, largely focusing on the teenage lifestyle and the problems faced by the modern-age single-parent family unit. The plot reveals the disparity between young love and the post-love state ushered in by divorce. Third-, first-, and second-person perspective are used, as well as the past, present, and future tenses, to the effect of providing a unique outlook and narrative voice for eight distinct characters. THE LITTLE DEATH ARTIST A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of Miami University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts Department of English by Aaron M. Fortkamp Miami University Oxford, Ohio 2009 Advisor: Eric K. Goodman Reader: Margaret Luongo Reader: Kay Sloan © Aaron Fortkamp 2011 TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE 1 …………………………………………………… 1 2 …………………………………………………… 14 3 …………………………………………………… 27 4 …………………………………………………… 35 5 …………………………………………………… 41 6 …………………………………………………… 46 7 …………………………………………………… 53 8 …………………………………………………… 65 9 …………………………………………………… 78 10 …………………………………………………… 90 11 …………………………………………………… 93 12 …………………………………………………… 102 13 …………………………………………………… 107 14 …………………………………………………… 114 15 …………………………………………………… 126 16 …………………………………………………… 136 17 …………………………………………………… 144 18 …………………………………………………… 153 19 …………………………………………………… 163 20 …………………………………………………… 169 21 …………………………………………………… 178 22 …………………………………………………… 186 23 …………………………………………………… 200 24 …………………………………………………… 208 iii Chapter One Shawn Shawn stuck his tongue into his lower lip, determined. He would walk next door. He’d already stood and said he would walk over there and introduce himself (to which Joey had laughed and said no he would not) and the standing had been the key, the standing was the decision already made. Anyway, it was better than bringing her over to this testosterone factory. But talking to a pretty girl ought to have warranted more consideration, given Shawn’s typical way of going about things. Instead, after a day’s worth of sneaking glances or outright staring from the safety of his (and Joey’s) bedroom window, he had simply realized that the spying wasn’t enough, that he wanted to meet her, and the decision had happened on its own. He was distracted of late. With increasing frequency, his concern for his and his brothers’ proper development had been at the forefront of his mind. He was so preoccupied with the distant future that when a major event happened in the present, when his development into an adult did make a significant leap, any consideration he’d put into the matter felt like an afterthought. Like when he’d started smoking. Another huge decision, barely registered. The younger the brother, Shawn believed, the more long-term damage there would be. Ty, seventeen now and already thirteen by the time of the divorce, was the most normal of the four, as if he’d sidestepped the thickest part of the mine field. Randall, a year younger than Ty, would say weird things now and then, and he stayed in his room a lot, but he was smart and could probably pull through to be relatively successful as an adult, if a hermit. Shawn had only been ten at the time, fourteen now, but he felt that recognizing the danger he was in could help him avoid the Oprah-levels of dysfunction the divorce might otherwise have caused. And then there was Joey. Poor Joey, the youngest by over a year. Doomed to be all kinds of fucked up. Best not to bring her over here. Shawn walked next door, up the hill and between the apple trees, his tongue fuzzy and full in his mouth. The moving truck sat empty in the driveway, and he thought he might have missed his window for a smooth introduction. But her father Peter answered the door and said that, well actually, he could use some help, moving furniture this way and that. “Not for a little while, though, I’m still deciding what goes where. Callie might need some help, though—hey, are you in high school yet?” “I will be, this fall.” “Good. Excellent. Callie will be a freshman herself, maybe you can help her get situated?” “I think, yeah, I can definitely do that.” Peter walked him up the stairs to Callie’s room, where she was organizing her bookshelves. He briefly knocked on her open door and then stepped out of the way to usher Shawn in. She turned, and yes she was, wow was she pretty. Better than he could’ve hoped, or dreamed, maybe he did dream about this, maybe this was all predetermined and he and Callie would— “Who’s this?” “Shawn. The neighbor, he’s fourteen too, I thought he might be able to help you settle in around here.” “Help with what?” 1 Peter took a half-step backwards as if preparing a quick exit. “Well, he’ll be starting high school too.” Then she spoke to Shawn directly. “But you’re not there yet?” “No,” he said, offering an abbreviated wave. “Fourteen.” Back to her father, she said, “How does that help?” Peter was already facing the stairs and spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll just be down in the study, if you need me. Uh—keep your door open.” Quickly, he disappeared. They were alone. She looked at Shawn, expressionless, as if waiting for him to say something, or do something, some momentous thing to mark the occasion of their first conversation. “That’s a lot of books!” he nearly shouted, pointing at the pile on her bed. “I’m sorry about my dad,” she said, not so much a response but as if it needed to be said before she could move on. “Don’t worry about it,” said Shawn as if he understood. “I mean—hey, don’t let me stop you, if you were trying to get your room in order. Or maybe I can help.” He picked up a book from the pile on her bed and turned to the shelf behind him, which stood taller than he. “What is it, by author?” “No,” she said quickly. “By color?” “No, just forget it. Did you want something, or why did you stop by?” He returned the book to the bed, just so she could stop staring at it. She didn’t, though. “Well I wanted to help you guys move, but everything’s—” “Yeah, we got it all—” “So maybe, I thought we could take a walk?” Her eyes flicked up at him, then quickly away. “Kind of hot out.” “Yeah, I’m sorry, forget it.” He began backing towards the door, focusing on saving the situation with an intriguing goodbye. “Okay, well—maybe you can help me, I guess,” she said. “But you can’t think I’m weird.” “Okay.” “Just remember, you promised. Do you promise?” “Yes.” “Okay, you promised. I’ve got twelve shelves. Six here, if you count the top, and then six over there.” She pointed to the other bookshelf in the far corner, next to the desk. “Like a calendar, you get it? I’m trying to organize them by month. By day, even, so this one—” She handed the book back to him: To Kill a Mockingbird. “This is a late August book, maybe around, I don’t know, the twentieth. Just put it on the second shelf down, that’s August, and towards the right somewhere.” He did as he was told. She handed him Catcher in the Rye. “Late April. No, wait, early May. Over there, fifth shelf down. No, one up from the bottom. Towards the left. More…more. Okay, there.” “How do you know where they go? Maybe you could do some, and I could do some.” “No, you can’t.” 2 “Just tell me how. Why is this one early May?” “Have you read it?” Shawn shook his head. “Well, that’s why you can’t help.” “If I read it, then I would know?” he asked. “Does it happen in May?” “No it’s actually around Christmas, I guess you can’t help me. I guess I am weird, let’s just forget it.” Whatever the process was, it was uniquely hers. Something mysterious. Something deep, and fascinating. She was not finding him deep or fascinating. She wanted him to leave, he could tell, she wanted him gone but she was too nice to kick him out. “You look stressed,” he said, lowering his voice and glancing at the door. “Okay I’m gonna tell you and you might not like it but you seem stressed, so I’m gonna tell you.” He clapped his hands and held them, leaned toward her suddenly, swallowing, the decision already made in the leaning and what the hell was he thinking, this was risking too much, his hands sweating into each other. He got close to her ear. She didn’t move away. He paused, just a moment, to remember the moment. “I go walking in the woods. Because that’s where I smoke.” She leaned away from him, caught his eyes, as if to check if he was serious. “You smoke?” she said, mouthing the last word and holding up two fingers. Looking…not repulsed. Intrigued, even. “Yeah. And it’s shady, so, not too hot. You wanna come?” They took a walk. Shawn curled his hands into fists inside his jean pockets as they walked down the hill from her house. A path was cleared, starting behind the tool shed in Shawn’s yard. The designated Smoking Log couldn’t be seen from the houses up the hill, but from the log they could see through the brush both the back porch of Shawn’s house and the back door of Callie’s. “Take this,” said Shawn. “Where’d you get these?” “Stole them.